The Lost Art
| I had a paper returned to me for revisions last week. The only note on the page was “not enough voice”. Never in my history of schooling has that ever been an issue for me. I know it was true, I re-read the paper myself and it came off as dry as a good red. It could have been an excerpt from a research journal. I will blame it on the CRC; I am correcting grammar mistakes for 10 hours a week and therefore have become more critical of my own writing style. I can focus on a grammar, organization, and structure mistake for 20 minutes, however, forgo checking for voice because I cannot determine voice in someone else’s paper. I have lost the art of writing. I have lost my joy in it as well. I doubt that I can lay all the blame in one area though. I know that this is partially because of Beste’s criticism; his claim that I write awkwardly. How can he judge from a scribbled note? He couldn’t have known that one comment would cut deep enough to sap any creative well I had inside of me. I have not written since. Not a word - Until now. And what is this? Shit. That’s what. |
July 29th
and now I am at a lost for words. when just a few moments ago I couldn’t keep them from flooding my brain, one after another, until I felt overwhelmed and eventually weary – to the point that I’d just let them compile and eventually drown beneath them. I can’t think straight and have no idea what has been wrong with my moods lately. This isn’t supposed to be happening – - this is the reason I religiously take my medication.But the mood swings are back.
I feel worthless most of the time and don’t know why. I don’t know if it is because my life seems so disorganized right now and the sense of chaos sends me near panic, or if I am mentally ill. FS tells me that I need to appreciate myself more, and that I shouldn’t be this shy because other people should get a chance see the wonderful things he sees in me. But there’s the thing; I don’t see anything wonderful. I feel like I used to love myself, that i used to have a sense of being, know who I was and what I wanted out of life. I found myself wondering if I should give up teaching, go to Kansas for a journalism degree (after I’ve spent all of this money). These are things I never would have considered. I feel I don’t know myself at all anymore. I’ve written at least 5 journal entries in my head in the past week. I even began writing a story — but my fear has progressed to the point that I won’t do it. Simply, will not. It’s as if my body becomes paralyzed at my every attempt. I wish I knew why the sudden unrest hit me, why restlessness invaded me like a parasite, sucking away at everything I love about life and especially myself. This is miserable and I am miserable because of it. I’m beginning to lose control too= I’m crying and obviously looking off, and as Andrew likes to point out oh-so-often now, have a closed stance. Gosh- this journal is going to be so sparse and depressing if someone ever tries to read it.
I’m giving up now. I sound like shit and I don’t want to hae to deal with it anymore.
